it won't leave my head
by Hawthornes
Summary: They've talked, occasionally. Exchanged a few words, a few glances sent in the other's direction when they didn't think they were looking— nothing much has changed. There's still a tense air that separates them.


They've talked, occasionally. Exchanged a few words, a few glances sent in the other's direction when they didn't think they were looking— nothing much has changed. There's still a tense air that separates them.

She's apologized to him, he's accepted it. He hasn't forgiven her, but that's okay— she doesn't expect him to; she hasn't forgiven herself, either. And it doesn't matter if either of them ever do. She made mistakes, she was wrong, and she's not even sure if she deserves anyone's forgiveness after all she did under Gerard's hand.

The first time they're alone together is in the dark.

She's hurt, bleeding, trying her damned best not to cry out and pain and give away her location.

Allison is almost positive that the text she sent out was to Scott— so imagine her surprise when it's Isaac who ends up at her side.

"I thought I—" she begins to speak, but in the end, it's more effort than it's worth. She still looks at him, though, brown eyes fighting to keep back the tears that threaten to spill over due to the pain she's in.

He glances sideways at her before his attention is focused on her shoulder, on the bullet wound deep in her skin. He peels back her jacket, and pushes the strap of her tank top down so he can get a better look. "You did," he says distractedly. "Text Scott, I mean. He left his phone at the loft. And I figured you required immediate attention, since you said you were shot and all."

Her face is paling more and more by the second, and she thinks that she's about to be sick— _again_. There's a churning in her stomach, but because of the fact that she's thrown up three times already pretty much makes her sure that there's nothing left.

She wishes that she could pass out, that blissful nothingness could claim her for at least a fraction of a second, but she knows that it's better for her to stay awake. Allison's eyes find Isaac's face through the darkness, and she notices that his brow is drawn tight with concentration as he continues to examine the wound.

She thinks she may see some concern in there, as well, but she can't be sure. She dismisses it as a trick her mind is playing.

"We need to get you to a hospital," he reports, leaning back on his haunches to look at her face.

"Never would've guessed." Her mouth is dry, feels like it's filled with cotton, which makes it all the more difficult to get the words out, but somehow she manages. Looking at him for a moment longer, her head falls back and lulls from one side to the other. There's no strength left in her neck to support the weight any longer.

Isaac shrugs off his jacket, resting it over her upper body, as if he's trying to make her warm. But she's already warm— too warm. Fever, she tells herself because she figures that she felt cold to the touch if he thought to cover her.

And if she's running a fever, there must be some sort of infection. And if there's infection— that pretty much means she's dead, right? Or, maybe that's just what Allison's mind is telling her in that moment. Death probably isn't about to visit her, no matter how much she thinks it is.

"I'm going to have to pick you up, and it's going to hurt." He lifts her head up so that she's looking at him, and though her vision has started blurring, she sees that he's chewing on his bottom lip in, what is, in fact, concern. She knows it this time.

She gives him a nod, which is barely an inclination of her chin.

To his credit, he tries his hardest to be gentle when he slides one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. The real pain doesn't come until he's lifting her off the ground. She has to bury her face in his shoulder to muffle the scream that builds in her throat. But it passes, eventually, and she cranes her neck to look up at him.

He's looking down at her, but his eyes quickly dart away when she glances at him.

It's not long after that that she passes out, the dark nothingness finally claiming her consciousness.

When she wakes up— she has no clue of what happened, or where she is. But it doesn't take long to come back to her, and she's left staring wide-eyed at the ceiling of the hospital room. There's little pain left, but her mind and body feel foggy and not quite real from the medication they have her on. She imagines it some of the strong stuff, which is good.

Something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye, and she turns her head towards the door. There's a frame retreating— tall, slouching awkwardly, hands stuffed in pockets. It doesn't take her long to figure out who it is, and his name is on her lips when her father and a nurse entre the room.

Her dad says something as he comes around to the side of the bed and takes her hand, but Allison's mind is too preoccupied to pay much attention to him.

"The guy who was just here—" She manages to croak out, looking up at the nurse who's adjusting her medicine.

The woman glances over her shoulder, nodding to herself. "I think his name is Isaac. He was here a couple of nights ago— he brought you in. Slept in the waiting room while you were in surgery, never left you side at all after that until your dad got here." She smiles down at the brunette. "Sweet kid. I'd love to have a friend like him."

Allison pauses a moment, taking the information in slowly. "Yeah," she eventually says before exhaustion claims her as its own once again and she's fallen back asleep. Before she does, she wonders briefly if the nurse had given her a sedative.

In a week she's out of the hospital. There had been—surprise, surprise—infection, so it was necessary for them to keep her a couple of days longer to insure they'd got it all. Wouldn't want to send her home to die, after all.

She doesn't see Isaac again, but a nurse informs her that he was back once more to ask about her.

Frequent visitors included Scott and Lydia— occasionally Stiles would tag along if they came in a group. But mostly it was just her Dad who never left her side except for coffee breaks, who slept in what had to be the most uncomfortable recliner known to man. She couldn't get her mind off of Isaac, though, and how he'd stayed with her the first night.

Did anyone else know about that? Scott knew that he'd been the one to bring her here— he told him that much, but she doesn't know what else. Probably not much. She almost gets up the courage to ask Lydia about him at one point, but it quickly washed away, and she kept her mouth shut about him the whole time, except for a few conversations with the nurses.

Another week, and she's back in school.

She knows that she needs to thank him, needs to say something to him at least, but there's never a moment where she could have the chance. She doesn't want to do it in front of everyone— it's better done in private. But that seems to be a daunting task because no one seems to want to leave her alone for any amount of time.

If she's not with Lydia, then she's with Scott, and if she's not with Scott, then she's with Stiles. The three of them pass her around, never let her out of their sight as if they're trying to be her own personal bodyguards. As much as she loves them— she wishes that they would take a step back, give her a little room to breathe.

She was shot, not maimed. And she's healing.

She figures that she's going to have to do the secret rendezvous thing if she ever wishes to have a moment alone with Isaac, so in homeroom she stealthily takes Stiles' phone from the pocket of his hoodie. She should have Isaac's number, but she doesn't. She finds it under Stiles' contacts and texts it to herself before quickly deleting the message and slipping the phone back where it was.

During English with Lydia, Stiles, _and _Scott is when she texts him. She figures it's the perfect time because there's no chance that more than one of them can leave the class at a time, and this way no one can try to follow her.

_**[ text sent ]: **__can you get out of class? we need to talk. it's Allison. _

It only takes a couple of minutes for him to respond.

_**[ text received ]: **__sure. where?_

_**[ text sent ]: **__main floor janitor's closet. _

She tosses the phone back in her bag before raising her hand and asking for the hall pass. _She needs to change the bandages on her shoulder, _she says. It gets her out easy enough, but Lydia and Scott both send her strange looks.

She very purposely ignores them as she ducks out of class.

Isaac's there before Allison, and she closes the door behind her. The space is small, cramped, and they're nearly touching, which makes her wonder if she should've chose a better spot to talk to him. It's too late now, and she looks at him, chewing on her bottom lip. She also should've thought about what she was going to say because, right then, she is drawing a blank.

"So. I'm assuming that you brought me to the make-out closet because you not-so-secretly want me," he starts, raising and eyebrow at her and crossing his arms over his chest.

Allison snorts, shaking her head. "No. I just— I wanted to thank you. For, y'know, saving my life and all."

"It was nothing," he dismisses it with a wave of his hand, but she's not finished.

"It's not nothing," she says. "It's something. The nurse— she told me that you stayed with me. While my dad was on his way, she said that you stayed in the waiting room when I was in surgery, and then you stayed by my side, after. And you didn't have to. You could've called Scott or Lydia and they would've been there. But you didn't."

Reaching around to rub the back of his neck, Isaac shrugs. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Well, thank you. I didn't deserve you being so nice to me after everything I did, but you did it anyway. And I means a lot, so I don't want you to think that it's not a big deal or anything. It was. Kind of owe you my life."

There's a long pause, and he's searching her face, inspecting every muscle and pore as if he's looking at her through a microscope. He reaches forward kind of awkwardly, and touches the side of her face with his fingertips. They've never touched before— not like this, at least, and she doesn't know what to do.

But then he speaks. "You came back from France, and you looked so defeated all the time— like you gave up on life, on trying to live. But you still did all this stuff, even when you didn't have to. You could've stayed out of it— it would've been safer. But you didn't. You cared more about everyone else than you do about yourself.

"So, in the woods, I expected you to be done fighting, ready to finally give in. You weren't. You had this determined look in your eyes— like. I don't know. Like you had to stay alive, had to stay awake. It was admirable."

She doesn't know what she's doing, but after he finishes speaking, the brunette closes the small distance between them and presses her lips against his. To her surprise, he doesn't try to pull away or push her back.

He accepts her; it's almost like he's forgiving her.


End file.
